


i wish it were you instead

by nutm3g



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, and a little reunion between them at the end, implied past relationship for brujay, mostly jason and lucas hooking up, very subtle implication to dicknighter and brudick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:26:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6200563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutm3g/pseuds/nutm3g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the many nights Jason has to play pretend, and one of the nights he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wish it were you instead

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very slowly getting into the DCU, so forgive me if anything is too ooc. I tried playing it a little safer by setting this in a timeframe before Jason is aware of who Midnighter is, and Midnighter's already vaguely aware of Jason being a former Robin, but opts to sticking with his alias.
> 
> Can also be read/reblogged on tumblr: insaciavele.tumblr.com/post/140720717975

He orders a glass of wine because it reminds him of Bruce – the most expensive the bar carries to make it more authentic, even though he’s short on cash. It’s only one glass, he figures. 

Presses his lips to the rim of the clear glass and wishes it was Bruce’s lips he felt instead, because he always imagined the man would feel as cool as his disposition.  Well.. Playboy Bruce Wayne, at least. Beneath that mask he puts on for the public eye, he’s probably a burning hot mass of internalized rage and sorrow and Jason’s head reels at the thought of it, so he puts down the glass before even drinking. 

He takes a look around the place. It’s not too bad. Not five star, top-notch like he imagined any of the Bat boys would be in for some party with the higher-up folk of Gotham. Nowhere he’d be. 

And he feels as out of place here too, in all his leathered glory, with his tight, black clothes, military boots, gun in its holster nestled at his hip. He feels as much an outcast here as he would if he were to go back home.

No. He couldn’t call the Wayne Manor home. Back then, maybe. But he’s perpetually angry now, sometimes over nothing, sometimes for good reason. Even more so at the moment, and he wrinkles his nose when he takes a long sip of the dark wine to drown out the rage in his veins. It’s bitter and near tasteless and disgusting, but he finishes it anyway. Hell, he might as well if he’s the one paying for it.

The bartender is flagged down, then leaves seconds after Jason barks out “three shots of Jack” at him, and another few seconds pass before three small glasses are set down to be filled to the brim. 

The first shot’s gone like nothing. Chin up, down the hatch. It burns like hell, but it’s a nice burn. He swallows down the second to chase away the flames in his throat, only for it to flare up and, after a moment, make his head a little lighter. His anger’s quelled, momentarily. It’ll be back in the morning with a raging hangover if he doesn’t slow down a little. 

But right now? Right now he’s eyeballing a man seated at the counter some feet away. The guy’s quiet with broad shoulders, a well-defined jaw sprinkled in a dusting of dark hair, like he didn’t bother to shave this morning. He’s got his eyes trained on his drink, the one gripped between strong hands that send little sparks of heat down to Jason’s groin. He wants those hands wrapped around his thighs, his throat, wants those thick fingers in his mouth. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s got him reacting so unnecessarily to a few physical features. Maybe it’s the fact that the stranger reminds him of Bruce, with that stern look in those eyes, those lips set in a hard frown. Jason knows, somewhere deep down, he should be ashamed of that thought. 

He finishes off the third shot and slides it to the side with the other empty glasses, leaving a few folded bills on the counter for the bartender before he’s out of his chair, approaching the object of his current desires with a light head and bedroom eyes. 

The conversation starts on his end, and with each passing moment, he gets a little more confident; closing the distance, tilting his head enough so that the dim lighting catches all of his good angles, his plump lips, his gorgeous eyes; touches the man’s arm flirtatiously when he cracks a joke. It goes from light-hearted to something a little on the heavier side when he mentions his sex life, or lack thereof, and the goddamned guy leans in and murmurs something like “pretty mouth like yours should be getting fucked everyday” in a voice that’s rough and gravelly enough to Jason’s liking. His head fucking spins when he feels lips against the shell of his ear, a hand on his waist, thumb pushing his shirt up enough to slide underneath it and feel the hip bone jutting out there. 

They move to a more private area (meaning, they stow themselves away in the guy’s car) so there’ll be less of an audience to their kisses - which are bruising, composed mostly of teeth and tongue and it isn’t long before Jason’s tasting blood. He can’t tell whose it is, but he doesn’t care. There’s enough force behind their liplock to have him content, have him melting like putty in the man’s lap. 

Faintly, he can hear “name’s Lucas, by the way” breathed in-between kisses, but it’s not like he’s paying attention to that. Frankly, he’d rather be calling  _ Lucas  _ something else, something  _ familiar.  _ Lucas, the poor thing, picks up on that godawful desperation. For a stranger he’d met in a bar only minutes ago, guy’s pretty intuitive. Jason likes that about him. The more reminders the better, even if each one’s like a stab to the stomach. 

“But you can call me anything you want, baby boy,” he says through red, kiss-abused lips. 

“Yeah?” Jason replies, voice wavering as he tries catching his breath, “can I call you ‘daddy’?” It’s meant to be a joke, a tease, but he says it like he means it, eyes brimming with a voracious desire to hear a confirmation, pupils blown wide. 

“Shit, I’d be a little upset if you didn’t.” Jason rewards him for that with a crushing kiss. He sneaks his hands down into the waistband of Lucas’ pants the moment he gets them undone, feeling along the length of his cock before squeezing. It feels plump, thick, and it’s got Jason’s breath hitching in the base of his throat. 

They undress each other like the world will end if they take too long, clothes ripped from bodies and flying into the front seats, onto the floor, but Lucas is a little gentler with prepping him. Not too gentle, though, especially not when Jason proves how much he can handle it when he starts rocking back on three thick fingers. 

By the time they even get down to it, every inch of the windows are fogged up and,  _ fuck,  _ is it hot in there. Jason doesn’t mind it, though. He likes the way their sweat-slicked bodies move against each other, how easy it is to move on Lucas’ lap as he rides the man halfway into oblivion; until his head’s tipped back, nails digging little, red crescents into Lucas’ chest, mouth hanging half-open while he pants out all sorts of nice things like  _ yes, daddy  _ and  _ fuck me harder with that thick cock  _ when Lucas matches his pace with heavy thrusts. 

When he cums, it’s with a barely-audible  _ Bruce  _ whimpered out, with quivering thighs and an arched back. 

Lucas follows him over the edge seconds after Jason tightens up, when he feels like he’s fucking into a vice and the heat is too overwhelming, only grunting out a raspy  _ fuck _ . 

Jason slumps onto him like a limp doll, tries his best to steady his breath through quick inhales and exhales at first, before easing into slow, deep breaths through the nostrils. He hears Lucas mumble again in that nice, rough voice of his -  _ “the other one said his name, too.”  _ It sounds more like he’s saying it to himself. Jason isn’t really in the mood to talk, so he brushes it out of mind, content to let things settle into silence. 

He’s busy falling into the warm afterglow overtaking his body, head still buzzing pleasantly with the flow of liquor in him, when Lucas finally shifts beneath him. 

“It's too fuckin’ hot in here,” he grumbles, nudging Jason out of his lap to lean all the way up to the front of the car and get the A/C started. Next thing he knows, Lucas is standing outside the car, fucking  _ naked  _ as the day he was born to pull on his disheveled clothes. Those he can find, that is. Going commando seems like no problem to him. 

“Alright, kid, let’s get you dressed. I’ll drop you off at home.” 

Lucas is back to that stern demeanor, rough exterior and everything, as opposed to his lover-like kisses and caresses and the way he held onto Jason like the kid meant everything to him only moments ago.

Just like Bruce. 

* * *

 

The entire morning and afternoon following pass in a blur, mostly because Jason slept through the hours like a baby. Who’s to say he can’t take a day off once in a while? He’s up for evening patrol anyway, dressed in his usual gear and pouncing rooftop to rooftop to scan over the first few streets of his route. 

He’s tense tonight. Bruce will most likely be out, considering nothing  _ big  _ has been going down lately. Nothing devastating that requires immediate attention, at least. Two-Face, Scarecrow, Penguin, all quiet as the dead. They’re probably each planning their own shitfest, but the vigilantes of Gotham will cross those bridges when they get to them. 

When Jason gets to the tallest building in his area, he pauses at the edge of its rooftop and contemplates having a smoke. Just a quick one to steady his nerves. It’ll only take a few seconds, considering he’s opted to leave the mask home. 

But, of course, as soon as the filter’s in his mouth, he hears the familiar  _ whoosh  _ of the cape, of boots near inaudibly thudding against the concrete. 

He can already hear the lecture forming in Bruce’s mind. 

It’s with a single glance at him that Jason’s chest tightens, like he’s choking on smoke before the cigarette is even lit. 

“Jason,” Bruce greets, voice low but… warm and fond. Almost. Deciphering the meaning in Bruce’s tone is like trying to remember the title of that one song you heard on the radio when you can barely put together the lyrics. Frustrating and practically impossible. Mostly frustrating. 

“Bruce,” Jason replies coolly, though he’s biting his tongue the second the name leaves his mouth. 

They both fall into a silence after that, greetings out of the way and all that. 

Wordlessly, Jason lights the end of the cigarette with a lighter he fished out of his pocket, staring Bruce pointedly in the eye as he sucks down a lungful of toxins and blows it out in a long cloud. 

Bruce only watches through his cowl, quiet even while he takes several steps towards Jason. 

For a moment, Jason thinks Bruce is going to knock him on his ass for smoking or start barking out that lecture he’s waiting for, but… nothing of the sort happens. Nothing bad. Bruce just. Plucks the cigarette from Jason’s mouth, pops the filter between his own lips, and takes a long drag. Then he hands it back, like nothing. 

Jason is stunned. Enraptured. Intoxicated because,  _ damn,  _ does Wayne look good with a cigarette in his mouth. He takes another drag and, rational thinking aside, leans up to hover his parted lips over Bruce’s, slowly pushes the smoke out into his mouth. He kisses him then, silently revelling in the way Bruce releases the smoke through his nostrils just so he can return the kiss. 

Bruce’s hands go to his face to cradle it, and Jason’s go to Bruce’s wrists, gripping them like a child would its mother’s pants.

The kiss feels like it’s going on forever. Jason doesn’t care, even though he should. People could be watching. Enemies. Rats associated with tabloids or anything media-based looking to get the latest dirt on Batman. But even then, he doesn’t care. 

Because with Bruce there,  _ kissing  _ him and holding him in the cold fog of evening Gotham, he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> "the other one said his name, too" 
> 
> who's this other one?? who knows....
> 
> it's dick. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
